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Song on Death
Death comesinexorably. His pale deft hand Is never still. Swift and impalpable He comes, taking what he will. Life is a circle Which has gone its round. He tarries Where old women sit, peering at the ground.
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Death comesinexorably. His pale deft hand Is never still. Swift and impalpable He comes, taking what he will. Life is a circle Which has gone its round. He tarries Where old women sit, peering at the ground.
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